The joke that leaves a sour aftertaste…

Ever present in the pub

Like a Toby Jug gathering dust

He sits beneath His name

In His corner and judges

A pissed-up His Honour

A slurrer of uncivil words

Waits with ruddy face

And a case to put forward

Says something earnest

As he grabs your elbow

Would like to get to know you well

Skips about like the record

On the too used, not demanded jukebox

Popular – like chicken pox

Asks if you don’t mind racist jokes

Secretly wouldn’t mind changing

The pub’s name to

The Rubicon Crossed

All that it signifies in his eyes

Eyes you sipping Diet Coke and wonders

If this is the first of the evening’s blunders

Dreams of absconding with the till

And Old Gill’s bristols

(She pulled a mean pint until that unfortunate fight

With breast cancer)

Still dreams

Still waits until the bell is rung

Dreams of what he’ll do once the bell is rung.

 

© Steve O’Connor.  2010

◄ Dirty Weekend

The reception ►

Comments

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Joshua Coates

Sat 5th Jun 2010 23:43

This reminds me of the people who hand around the local near me. not the most pleasant of places.
You create a clear picture of this pub world and it's just a magnificent read. Would be interesting to hear more from these characters in this pub

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Isobel

Wed 2nd Jun 2010 09:27

Good to see you posting Steve.
You paint a thoroughly horrible picture here - not the poem, but the character. I'm hoping it isn't based on someone real - though you must have drawn your inspiration from somewhere.
I think the bit about the beer and breast cancer sealed it for me.
Liked the legal imagery you slipped in - it all goes to build a case...

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